The Way She Feels
by Bloody Koalas
Summary: Post 'Wilson's Heart'. How do Cuddy and House deal with death? How do they deal with eachother? A birthday present, despite the fact that its three days early, for travlncarrie's daughter.


**A/N: For travlncarrie's daughter. Happy Birthday, little girl, even though it will be years before you'll be able to understand this, and even then I don't particularly want you to be reading such a grim story, anyway. The message is a bit depressing for a beautiful little child such as you, but I know your mom will understand it. Appreciate the effort, not the actual writing. Have a great birthday, honey.**

**Disclaimer: No. I do not.**

The man slumped against the shallow building wouldn't have raised anyone's alarm. Passerby would notice that he was drunk, maybe assume he'd sleep it off. The truth was that this man was not drunk. He wasn't one to get high, either, and so normally the young, apparently sleeping person wouldn't have been the cause of raised suspicion whatsoever. However, the building he was leaning against was not his own shady apartment, and for that reason, the body of Dr. James Wilson was not pronounced dead until the following morning, when the Princeton Medical Examiner determined he had committed suicide.

* * *

Gregory House sat quiet and undisturbed on the balcony, the cool night blowing around him like an unwelcome blanket. A hand shot down to his thigh, tenderly inspecting an area he knew by memory, hoping for a change, any change at all. Even the slightest dip in pain. But none came, not a single instant of relief from the fire enveloping his leg, his body, his mind. He would never be free of the pain, never ever. He would remain the bitter, crippled man he has always been. No one would ever be able to change that, not any more. Not any more.

* * *

She lay in bed, hopefully. Pleadingly. Her only thoughts revolved around getting sleep, any sleep at all. She was so tired, so unbelievably exhausted. She wanted rest. She needed to dull her emotions. She wanted everything quiet. _Please, _she whispered into the night. _Let me die. Let me stop living this. Let me sleep!_ But Lisa Cuddy knew she'd never be able to shut her eyes that night. Not after…not after what had happened. It was too vivid in her memory. Amber. Amber was too real to go. She was too strong to die. Wilson was too weak to survive without her.

At that thought, Cuddy started crying. Sobbing. Screaming. Tears raced down her face as she grabbed the nearest object, her alarm clock, and whipped it at the window, simultaneously shattering the glass and hushing the blinking digital display. Her voice rose in a panic, and she bolted out of her bed, feet padding mercilessly against broken glass, blood streaming across the glossy wood floors. She shook her head fiercely around the kitchen, searching, _searching_…where was it? Where did she keep it? _Where was it?_

* * *

House stood rigid, listening earnestly to the message being left on his answering machine. "Doctor, I just thought you should know that there's a lot of noise coming from Lisa's house. I know how close you two are, and..." the voice droned off, at least in House's head. Before he had time to wonder why the idiot neighbor wasn't already over at Cuddy's, checking to make sure everything was okay, House was out the door, motorcycle keys slapping in his hand.

* * *

A knock pounded loudly on the door. Cuddy ignored it, ruthlessly continuing her search, pleading to God that she could find her treasure before she exploded. The rap on her door became more insistent, more urgent, but still the woman made no attempt to get near the door. Sounds made no difference to her, not after hearing the shot from her small bedroom that last night. Now she only focused on sight. Where was it?

The door was kicked down. "Cuddy!" roared House, looking fiercely into his boss's eyes. But she made no eye contact; she ignored his presence entirely. She kept searching. "Cuddy, stop!" He dropped his cane and grabbed her shoulders tightly. She stared into his eyes, looking for traces of anger, of denial. Surely he couldn't be okay. But his eyes were _scared; _in fact his entiredemeanor portrayed horror, fear, childishness. He was afraid!

"Lisa. Listen to me!" he continued, clutching her shoulders for dear life. Cuddy's head darted away from his, she refused to talk or otherwise participate in his game. "Lisa. _Lisa_. You have to stop. You have to slow down. It'll be—" At that, House broke off. He was about to say 'It'll be okay,' but it so obviously wasn't going to be, and he had no idea what to do. However, his lapse in speech proved too long a wait for Cuddy, who instantaneously wrenched away from his grasp and jumped onto her kitchen counter, a sly smile on her tired face.

_I've found it!_ She thought bravely, a smooth blood streaked hand reaching into a cardboard box on the top cabinet drawer. She withdrew her arm, an orange bottle full of antidepressants in hand, triumphantly. Ripping off the cap, she tilted her head back to down the bottle, when suddenly a firm hand hit the bottle from her grasp. Small white pills scattered across her floor, and Cuddy lost it. She fell back into House's arms, sobbing, bleeding. House didn't speak, only caged her with his arms and let her cry.

"Cuddy." He whispered, almost unnoticeably. Her head shot down, buried into his shirt. "We'll get through this." Taking a breath, he added, "We'll get through it together."

Her eyes widened, then fell as her exhaustion caught up with her. She slowly succumbed to gravity and allowed herself to fall to unconsciousness into House's arms, his last words imprinting in her memory. "I swear it, Lisa Cuddy. I've got you." House watched silently as the woman he loved fell asleep in his arms. He really did. He'd protect her forever.


End file.
